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“I noticed,” Stella said tiredly. “The Earl of Lilford is also in love with Lady Yasmin. I believe the feeling is mutual, though, of course, the Duke of Huntington would rather it were otherwise.”

“She’ll make a precious countess, unless she chooses to be a duchess,” Mrs. Thyme muttered. “Thank goodness she didn’t fall in the water, because her gown would have melted like spun sugar.”

Stella nodded.

Presumably, she ought to be devastated by the prospect of losing the Earl of Lilford, her only suitor of high rank, but in truth, she didn’t care. If he asked, she would marry Giles, and in time presumably come to care for him.

But gaining Lydia as a sister-in-law?

It was almost a good enough reason to refuse his proposal.

Oddly enough, though Mrs. Thyme was certain that Yasmin’s betrothal would appear in the morning paper, no such announcement was made, in writing or through gossip.

Nor the day after, nor the rest of the week.

In fact, Lady Yasmin stopped dancing with the Earl of Lilford altogether. For the entire Season, he had always claimed her first waltz, a dance that everyone watched with keen interest.

Now he didn’t even glance her direction on entering a ballroom.

“She turned him down,” Mrs. Thyme concluded. “Of course, a duke is higher rank than an earl. She wants to be a duchess.”

Lydia was triumphant and told Stella repeatedly that her brother would never cavort with such a scandalous woman, let alone marry one.

Stella wasn’t so certain.

Yet the facts seemed evident: Yasmin and Giles now ignored each other, and Giles danced with Stella, if anyone. He didn’t offer to escort Stella to any events, but Mrs. Thyme concluded that was due to the earl’s punctilious care for his little sister. Even now that Lydia was engaged to Lord Pettigrew, her brother continued to act as her chaperone, as when he accompanied Lydia to the country to visit Lord Pettigrew’s parents.

By the end of April, Stella was in the habit of dancing twice with Giles every evening, and often going into supper with him. Her other suitors still flocked around her, especially as the news of her enlarged dowry spread, but they wooed without conviction.

Only Harold refused to accept that a fortune hunter could never win a lady’s hand when an earl was in the offing. It was simple mathematics to Mrs. Thyme. Just as Yasmin chose a duke over an earl, Stella would never consider an American over an earl.

Silvester danced with Stella too—always a waltz, and often two. She was happiest in those moments, whirling around the ballroom in his arms, with no worries about falling down or losing her balance. He held her so tightly that their thighs brushed together, his arm circling her, his big, warm body only inches from her own.

They talked straight through each waltz, about everything from Specs to the currency markets. Sometimes he stayed at her side through the following dance, the better to continue a conversation.

Unless, of course, the next dance was promised to Yasmin. In that case, Silvester kissed her hand and was gone.

He even paid her morning calls, claiming that he loved to listen to Specs sing. Yet not even Mrs. Thyme at her most optimistic suggested that the duke was courting Stella.

“Lady Yasmin has him on a leash,” Mrs. Thyme said darkly. “I can’t imagine why they haven’t announced their betrothal. She glances across the ballroom, and he leaps to her side. It’s not manly.”

“But you’ve always said that gentlemen—”

“Not that way,” Mrs. Thyme said. “Not the way he looks at her. Husbands shouldn’t look at their wives that way. It’s almost indecent.”

“Desirous?” Stella hazarded, confused.

“Affectionate,” Mrs. Thyme stated. “More than affectionate. It’s like seeing a husband and wife dance together.” She shuddered. “It just isn’t done.”

Thankfully, day after day of Stella reminding herself that Silvester was merely a friend—albeit, perhaps her closest friend—began working.

She stopped blushing when they met. She couldn’t stop her body from delighting in the feeling of being surrounded by him during a waltz, by his wintery soap, by the way he laughed. But she applied herself to rejecting the idea that he was desirable.

Let alone the most desirable man of all.

Luckily, Specs was always there to distract her during moments in which Stella felt battered by jealousy of Yasmin. Specs was growing into a lithe, beautiful cat, who loved to play as well as sing.

“I don’t know what we ever did without her,” Stella’s aunt said one morning. She was reposing on a settee in the morning room, a damp cloth on her forehead, suffering from a headache. Rain was splattering against the windows, so Mrs. Thyme had announced they would spend the day indoors.